


No Need For Cake Or Flowers

by tkp (lettered)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon, prose-poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-03
Updated: 2006-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettered/pseuds/tkp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't really a fic.  It's more like stream of consciousness.  You might find it fun, so I share...but it's not a <i>fic</i> fic.  Spike and Dru: a night on the town in the 1920s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Need For Cake Or Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Title is Jill Tracy, Diabolical Streak, "Let's Spend an Evil Night Together". Nothing gets more Spike/Dru than that song.

**Chicago, 1920s**

Dru's been sleepin' shaky, misses the snag of Darla's nails. He's been creepin' by wary, trying not to wake her nighttime hush. Sneakin' out at night now and then, he brings her back a bedroom tale: a virgin fresh and saintly, but the fear's too thin to feed Dru's lust.

Need a plan to pep her up some, get back the days of mayhem. Wanna hit on the town on all sixes, feed on all the innocence. Get on down by the jazzin' parlor, Spike steps her in for a bit of punch. Let the smoke sting like incense; suck in on the jazz room draw. Fuck the fish-net waitress, serve up a plate of fun.

Inside is murky gambol, all full of the frets and gin. Bassist plucking the beat right in tune, inching toward the perfect chord. Hoofer high-kicking up where the moon goes, shimmyin' down where the jeepers creep. Crooked man bent over the bar with a cigar, taper, bottle of booze and a loose suspender. Gotta stage blue with the haze of warm blood, sweat and pores so sweet like candy. Gonna drink it all down in one shot, then again it could be three.

Wend a way through the torsos and neck-lines, Spike n' Dru it into the cool black heart-- sittin' pretty piano, thrummin' hard with its ribcage of groove. A cool cat's nookie'in' around on its G-spots, minor and good ole treble'in' clef; he's sendin' a thrill down its baby grand, just like twistin' that birdie's breasts.

Take 'im down with a whisper kiss, lands so smooth it's like on a film. "Dinner and a show ducks, all set for a Friday evening. Let's murder till the bassist stops screaming; come on, he'll taste like pepper/mint."

Jazzer's blood oozin' down on the hard floor, snap of silence makes it so damn real. Red and the blue swirling 'round all rich swanky, it's a violet shadow on an artist's paints. "Daddy'd've loved the show here, so sad, it's jazz and all so bent."

"Gotta get over it, doll; it's just me; see?" But just another fairytale gone wrong. Dru ain't buyin', Dru, Dru, doll--she's got the blues.


End file.
